


Bottle It

by walkinglimestreet



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff, George Harrison - Freeform, George is overthinking, Hand Jobs, John Lennon - Freeform, John helps him relax wink wink, M/M, Morning Sex, Smut, Stress Relief, and this is a complete rip off of an episode of shameless us, trying to write in my own accent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28888641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkinglimestreet/pseuds/walkinglimestreet
Summary: WARNING: very cheesy and very unrealistic.Based around the time of The Beatles US tour, when things started to get really heavy, 1965.George is sleepless with anxiety about touring. John, who is now his boyfriend, has tried to reassure him whilst on tour that it's not as bad as he thinks. One particularly stressed morning John wants to start the day right by taking George's mind off everything.
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon, George Harrison/John Lennon
Kudos: 18





	Bottle It

**Author's Note:**

> YEAH very cheesy, and that's because it's taken from a Shameless US scene, but it's the Beatles instead. I'm filling in for my lack of ideas and what lmao

John stirs awake slowly, almost confused by the lack of contact he is feeling from another. Lying on his side, facing the wall, he glances over his shoulder and his confusion subsides.

George is lying beside him on his back; eyes wide; brows painfully furrowed. He's sucking in his bottom lip and has his fingers interlocked over his chest. Hard as stone, like a sculpture sealed with a coat of clear, slow-drying anxiety. It's so thick that George could swear he could feel it seeping into the mattress. John knows he's worried -- and what he's worried about -- but George has been for a couple of days now, and even after talking it out, the problem won't subside. Or rather, George won't let it.

"Too early for thinking," John groans, dropping his head back onto the pillow as he lazily throws his arm to the opposite side, landing on the youngest's paralysed form. Normally, anyone who ended up sharing a bed with George would wake up with him wrapped around them; it almost frustrates John, rather than concerns him -- again, they've talked about it. A few times. 

"I can't cope with the idea of 'aving to do this rubbish any longer, John." George finally speaks up. His voice is raspy and dry, a low tone completely lacking in emotion, yet overflowing with regret and sorrow.

John sighs, turning over to face his mate. His arm that landed on George was replaced by his other to allow his fingers to stroke his arm, earning no response. The sun is scorching through the blinds, causing John to squint. But an idea has entered his head, so he hesitates for time for his vision to adjust - as much as it can without his glasses - and he can see his friend properly.

"We've been over this," John yawns. "Y'love it once yer'on stage."

"No'anymore, I don't. Am a performing monkey. One that's exhausted from constantly flyin' backwards and forwards around the globe." George's tone has shifted to borderline aggressive, but his stature has remained unmoved. "It was fun, John - but now am so scared it's just gunna get worse."

He finally turns to look at John, not even fighting back the fact that his eyes are about to leak. His head is pounding and his stomach is tight - he believes he truly means what he's saying. Touring for years, more tours still to come - he's finally running out of reasons why he should carry on. 

"You're thinking about it far too much, kid," The older Beatle has managed to bring himself into the room fully, and has shifted so that half of his body is resting on top of George's. "Iss not like the birds're throwing knives 'n bombs onto the stage. We -- you -- make people happy. So stop fussin', please."

John's bluntness just makes George throw a strop, dramatically landing his arms to his sides and letting out a sharp exhale. He's not even phased by the way John is now using his hands to bring George's t-shirt up from under the covers.

"The fact yous aren't fussin' about it is just making it harder for me. I feel like am going out me brain." 

"We know how y'feel," John has a warm smile in his voice, and he's very softly moved George's shirt up to his shoulders to expose his abdomen. "We're trying t'look after you." When John starts planting the lightest of kisses on his chest, George finally looks down to try and meet his eyes with his frown.

"Don't waste y'time. Me mind's made up."

John takes no more notice of George's continuous comments, or his gaze. He continues to trail kisses down to his stomach -- his toned abs clearly raised from all the bloody stress and tension -- as fingers on his left hand gently play with one of his nipples, whilst the other is squeezing George's hip, as he knows he likes -- usually.

"Cut tha'out, please." Another irritated groan rolling off his lips, only followed by a not very threatening hand being placed on John's shoulder.

"Am not doing anything," John smirks, licking down to the waistband of George's shorts. His hand once making an imprint on his hip had moved to tug the baggy fabric down his legs. Then he looks up, being met with another frustrated sigh. 

"Cheer up, will ya! Or dyou wanna answer some letters while we're at it?"

George seems to snap out if his deep anger - his face has relaxed, but his frown doesn't want to leave. He places his hand lovingly on John's bedhead of hair below his waist, letting out yet another sigh; this time it has an apologetic melody to it.

"Sorry," he shuts his eyes. "Am really not in the mood."

"Hmm," John grins - as he leans up to meet with George's face again he moves his hand down to wrap his fingers around his cock, chuckling at how hard it is, contrary to George's statement. "Seems like you are to me, love."

George rolls his eyes. He really fails to see how John can remain so unaffected despite the blatant fact that their career is becoming so painstaking, that his erotic touching has completely bypassed George's normally extremely sensitive motor neurons and is probably never going to turn his head to a bright future by shagging. All hope seems lost.

"Do you not understand that this is our livelihood now, and all it's turned out to be is a fuckin' charade-"

"Okay! You need to bottle it." John interrupts George perfectly, thanks to his hand being placed onto George's mouth to silence him. Not in any way menacing, but rather a mock scolding. George's eyes are wider than before, piercing through the older boy above him. His anxiety has paused -- a fight or flight response is more appropriate here, having been slyly undressed and held down onto the mattress, vulnerable, by his larger companion.

"This is somethin' we'll need to take up with Eppy - not worth dwellin' about all the time when we can do something about it."

John's voice is soft and quiet; almost soothing; warm as it wafts against George's cheeks. The young lad is unsure of what to think, or of what is happening -- what he is sure of is that he feels an instinct-like drive to hear John, and listen to what he's saying; staring deep into his pupils. 

"You need a stress reliever and we're due for a meeting an hour, so allow me to be of service before you hurt yourself," as he speaks, he's pulling his own shorts down enough to allow his own erection some soft air. He even reaches over to the bedside table to squeeze some conveniently placed moisturiser into his hand, almost unbeknownst to George, who'd nearly appear to be hypnotised by John's dominance. "I'm gunna do all the work. You just breath and lie still."

George shudders as he feels a warm, slippery organ against his thigh. John readies himself on his own accord, spreading George's legs and lifting them slightly.

"Mm fmmhm mmhm," George tries to protest something, a worried glaze returning to his eyes.

"I said bottle it," John demands, but with a lighthearted chuckle in response to his mate's need to let himself be heard. "Breath."

Slowly -- slowly -- John pushes into George. No preparation; no patience; but sudden yet gentle stimulation that soon proves to feel just right. In harmony, George sighs at the sensation against John's hand. His eyes flutter closed, but his prominent brow is still furrowed and his eyelashes heavy. John can read this face -- he's adjusting to the change in size at his most intimate area like he always does with John.

"Just you an' me. You an' me breathing together. Just me inside you. Can y'feel me?" John sings almost breathlessly, earning a nod from George. It's working: he's grounding him. As John's hips snap forward gently George's eyes open again, connecting perfectly in line with John's hazel ones. A cork is being forced onto George's spilling bottle of anxiety, being silenced, and he can't bring himself to focus on anything else. When the sensation of John's cock rubbing against his insides suddenly sends a strong warm wave up his spine, he moans.

"That's it, Georgie," John whispers, letting his hand fall from the brunette's reddened lips. "Give y'self over to me. You feel so bloody good."

George feels as though he's been sent into a trance. Almost like a meditation session -- where all he can concentrate on is John impaling him softly, his hand in his hair; the other holding his thigh; the burning in his arse becoming sweet and blissful, as his head fills with the endorphins he didn't know he needed.

John soon picks up the pace, and after finding leverage, brings his hand down from George's thigh to stroke him, matching the speed of his thrusts. He grunts softly, as George's moans become more familiar.

"That good, beautiful?"

"Mmm... ah- yeah... o-ohh~"

"That's more like it," they kiss deeply, emerging into each other's heat. "You're brilliant. You're brilliant."

George can already feel the increasing bubbling of an orgasm rising up from his groin. He gasps quietly for air, unconsciously lifting his body up slightly; as if to steady the aim of the climax to shoot right up his spinal cord and set fireworks off in his hypothalamus.

John's thrusts are intense now, hitting George deep, the impact setting him further into the soft mattress. His hand is almost burning from stroking his cock, but with reward. When he comes, George's moans take up all the energy in his little body, as well as focusing his grip on John's biceps; gasping as he spills onto his stomach and John's hand.

John comes to a halt - satisfied. George sits up almost, resting his chin against John's shoulder as he creeps back into reality. He can't believe what just happened, but he feels a hundred times lighter than before. No tightness; no fear; just relaxed, post-orgasm warmth.

All anxiety seems to have been sealed, and George lies back heavily into the pillow. 

"Righty-ho," John exclaims and back flips off the bed; George forgot that John was there for a second, he's so spaced. "Thanks for the blue balls. Gunna make a brew. Be happy!"

And he's gone. George watches as his buddy leaves the room, still trying to piece everything back together. After a moment, George wraps himself in the duvet, letting out a fit of giggles. He feels happy. Proper soppy. 

He can't wait to meet the rest of his friends with a welcoming smile, completely void of fear and anxiety. He doesn't even care that the feelings may return - he's happy now. He feels the most loved and cared for he has done in a while, and he's going to savour it.


End file.
